This month, Jones and her band, the Dap-Kings, released their fifth LP, Give the People What They Want, a tough, careening collection of soul songs huffed into existence by the barely-5-foot-tall Jones and her caucus of expert backers. Since her 2002 debut, Jones has stacked up accolades and validations: collaborations with Lou Reed (their duet of “Sweet Jane” — in which that desolate jam becomes hopeful, nearly exuberant — still makes me giddy), a stint opening for Prince, performances at endless festivals and on late-night chat shows, an appearance atop a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Every time I’ve seen her perform, whether at a festival or in a concert hall, she’s been decked out in a short, sparkly dress and tiny heels, her shoulder-length box braids whipping every which way, her hips swinging. Jones has one of the most dutiful, nearly subservient relationships to an audience I’ve ever witnessed: She approaches each show as a kind of grand public service. Like: “Here, let me help you with your evening.”